


The Memory of Flight

by LawrVert



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LawrVert/pseuds/LawrVert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He looked in that moment like a fallen angel ascending from the hell of Toulon and rising from the depths to reclaim his place in paradise. "   </p><p>(From a Kink Meme Prompt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Memory of Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Chrissy-24601 for beta reading!

On the cart of prisoners awaiting transport to the Bagne of Toulon, amongst the murderers with wings like great carrion birds meant only for striking and preying on weaker men, rode a quiet man who had only ever used his wings for soaring across the sky, lighting in the trees he pruned, and sheltering seven small children. He wept for the fledglings and the widowed sister he left behind, though not even the searing pain of branded flesh, the heaviness of chains, or the sting of the lash ever drew a cry from him after that last day of freedom. 

Javert found him remarkable. He watched 24601--the flex and roll of the powerful muscles of his back and the strain of those glorious wings against the chains as he lifted burdens that no man should be able to lift. Even the grime and rivulets of sweat could not mask the iridescence of the strong, finely tapered white feathers. 

He touched them once very briefly while checking the security of Valjean's chain; as his hand passed over the slightly slick surface of the wing and to the underside, it lingered on the soft, downy feathers, and he felt Valjean shudder, his wings trembling at the touch. He was tormented that night and for many nights after by dreams of stroking Valjean's wings and burying his face in their softness. The longer he was at Toulon, the more intense the dreams became until he dreamed of the mighty wings enfolding him as Valjean moved against him and within him until his hands curled around them in his ecstasy. He dismissed his body's reaction as nothing more than fever dreams brought on by the heat.  
Once, Valjean met his gaze as he shouldered a large block of granite. His eyes were filled with all the wrath and sadness of an avenging angel, and it filled Javert with a sudden and shameful heat. When Valjean refused to drop his gaze or bow his head, he ordered Valjean to solitary confinement for defiance to remove the brute from his sight; for Javert knew he was a brute just like the rest, and the strong wings would sooner entrap or batter than shelter. 

The time in the filthy holes used for solitary confinement weakened and killed many prisoners. They often emerged from the dank holes with pneumonia or were driven mad from the isolation, but Valjean emerged enraged with a new resolve to escape, and made his first attempt within a fortnight. 

It was customary at that time for the chains to be removed before prisoners labored as the heavy shackles limited their ability to lift heavy loads and diminished their endurance. Once the chains were off, he waited until he was in a distant corner of the yard, eyes directed downward in a posture of supplication until inch by inch, he looked up at the sky and stood to test the wind, letting his wings lift almost imperceptibly. After a few moments, he gave a tiny nod to two men across the yard who started a heated argument. While the guards were distracted, he ran a few paces and lept into the air. As he took flight flapping the powerful, magnificent wings with a sound like the rustling of leaves; he looked in that moment like a fallen angel ascending from the hell of Toulon and rising from the depths to reclaim his place in paradise. The powerful muscles in his chest strained from the exertion as he flew higher and higher and the light reflected off the brilliant feathers.  
Javert felt his bound wings twitch in sympathy watching 24601 fly. The sight filled him with a dark and terrible longing, and for an instant, he did not sound the alarm; he was too mesmerized by the powerful undulations of the enormous wings, resplendent in the sun. He remembered his duty with a feeling of ice in his belly, and soon the alarm was sounded sending two sentinels in pursuit. The men were slight with stunted slate-colored wings tapering to sharp points designed for speed in the pursuit of fugitives rather than beauty. The sentinels were no match for Valjean on the ground, but his wings and the supporting muscles were weakened from the chains, atrophied from disuse, and he began to tire too quickly. It was not long before the nets were thrown over him; yet he strained against the ropes until exhaustion overtook him. He fell and the sight was as poignant and terrible as Icarus falling in his attempts to reach the sun. 

He received double chains after the first attempt, and for a time, the powerful wings stilled. During patrols, Javert would peer through the bars at Valjean as he slept, watching with a combination of disgust and fascination as the wings trembled, wondering if he dreamt of flight. 

Javert saw Valjean fly once more during his time in Toulon. While Valjean served on the galleys, a man fell and became tangled in the rigging, ropes twisting about him like threads of a spider web around a fly. The man panicked and was unable to free himself as the galley ship rolled and pitched on the rough sea. None of the men dared risk their own lives to go after him. Valjean alone volunteered to fly and retrieve the man whose wings had become trapped. After much debate among the guards, Javert ordered his chains removed, though it was unlikely given the degree of atrophy prisoners suffered that he would be able to reach the man. 

After a roll of his powerful shoulders and a tentative extension of his wings, Valjean got a running start, the powerful gust from the upstroke of his wings nearly knocking the men around him off their feet. He fought against the wind until he was able to reach the man where he hovered beside the sailor and whispered calming words while he carefully disentangled the crewman’s wings and lifted him from the rigging. The added burden nearly caused him to fall to earth, but he landed safely on the deck and set the stunned crewman down. A cheer rose up among the crew and Valjean's was hailed as a hero though the revelry only lasted a few moments before the double chains were replaced on his aching wings. Fifteen years would pass before he would be rid of them.

The whole of Montreuil embraced M. Madeleine for his benevolence, Only Javert, now a police inspector, was suspicious of the man and haunted his steps, a shadow lurking in corners, waiting for him to make a mistake that would reveal him. Madeleine was a solitary, reserved man. Though his wings were meekly folded at his back when he walked through the streets of the town, Javert knew that Madeleine’s most secret and cherished pleasure was soaring above the open fields. He had often seen the man catching a breeze and gliding toward the sun with his enormous wings unfurled, tearing through low-hanging clouds, and brushing the tops of trees with his fingertips. 

Madeleine assisted small children in flying their kites, and retrieved the ones they lost; and if there was a citizen in a rainstorm without an umbrella, they walked beneath the shelter of his brilliant white wings. Javert had recognized them even before he witnessed Madeleine lift a cart weighing nearly a ton off of old Fauchelevent. He would watch Madeleine soar through the sky with a trace of envy like a boy coveting another child’s plaything. His own black greatcoat concealed and protected the bound wings he had never used. What use did a child of the gutter have for flight? Flying was only a grim and constant reminder of how far he could fall. 

Later, Javert had been shamed by Madeleine when the man blatantly disregarded his authority in front of his men, defending the prostitute, Fantine. Javert recalled Madeleine had looked beautiful and terrible as he shielded the unconscious woman, enfolding her in his enormous wings.  
in the court of Arras, Javert recalled that he had stood proudly as he revealed his identity. His hair was transfigured to the same brilliant white of his wings as he saved the convict from false imprisonment. After the trial, at the hospital, he sat at Fantine's bedside after the life had left her and his wings had enfolded her again as if he were the angel who would take her soul to heaven. Javert feared in that moment if he seized Valjean, he would be consumed by fire; but when his hand touched Valjean’s collar, there was no retribution, no crash of lightning. The man allowed himself to be escorted to the jail meekly. 

 

The ropes of the martingale chafed at the skin of Javert’s neck and groin, and the wood of the table bruised the spot between his wings. Each movement brought new burning pain as the martingale grew taut against him. After hours of waiting for death, it was almost a relief when Valjean tipped the table and seized him by the martingale to claim him. The years had been kind to Valjean, while Javert’s dark hair had turned grey and his tanned skin was lined and furrowed. Aside from the faint creases at the corner of his eyes and the whiteness of his hair, his appearance was unchanged. He still possessed the strength and vigor of a man half his age. 

As he studied Valjean’s back when the man lead him to his execution, he was filled with sudden chill as if his flesh was pierced by a thousand icy needles. Initially, he assumed that Valjean’s wings were tucked underneath his National Guard's coat to avoid injury, but the plain white linen shirt had none of the characteristic openings or adaptations for winged men. Belatedly, he realized that the shirt hung awkwardly from the area of Valjean’s shoulderblades. He had seen this deformity in some of the older convicts during his early years in Toulon. The scarred stumps on Valjean’s shoulder blades were the remnants of where a prisoner’s wings had been cut off at the joint. When he was at Toulon, the practice of wing amputation was abolished due to the barbaric nature of the procedure, but that hadn’t spared Valjean. Javert’s face lost all color and he leaned heavily against the barricade, bound hands scrabbling for support when Valjean finally stopped walking and turned to face him. 

Valjean crossed his arms and regarded Javert coldly for a moment. Javert could only stare as his jaw worked soundlessly until finally, he could speak. “They took your wings..” Confusion and horror mixed in his voice.

“Yes.” There was pain in Valjean’s expression, but his tone was devoid of bitterness or hate.

“I..I did not know.” He steeled himself, drawing a deep breath. “Take your revenge, Valjean.” He spoke quietly without his usual arrogance and authority. “You deserve it.” 

Valjean gave no answer and instead took a small knife from his pocket. Javert studied it, strangely relieved. It would not be a simple, clean death. Perhaps it would still be quick, or perhaps Valjean intended him to suffer before the end. Either way, it would be just. 

But instead of this, Valjean cut Javert’s bonds and set him free. Even when Javert turned back and asked him somewhat desperately to kill him, Valjean refused.

A day later, Javert sought out his only chance of atonement on the bridge.

 

Yet it was Valjean who searched for him when he did not return to collect his prisoner, Valjean who hauled him from the icy water, dragged him into a fiacre, and brought him to his home. Valjean would not allow him to die.

For weeks, Javert refused food and raved with fits of near-madness. Valjean was always there even when Javert shoved him away or slammed the door in his face. Valjean made sure that despite his sullen moods, Javert always had everything he needed--fresh clothing and linens,trays of food left at his door, the morning paper and even a snuffbox to replace the one he left on the bridge. Javert resented living on Valjean’s charity, but the reality was he had no other option. He was penniless and his small room had been rented to another tenant. He could not return to police work since he had issued his resignation, and the truth was he no longer wanted to. Valjean did not pressure him to talk; however, he spoke warmly to him when Javert at last, albeit reluctantly, began to dine with him. Javert offered only grunts and nods at first, and gradually, over a few weeks, began to speak.

Once he was recovered, the policeman started taking walks at night, wandering the city. Javert rarely slept and when he did, he was tormented by nightmares. The large man, who had always been sturdy and strong, had become pale and gaunt. When Javert finally returned, he usually walked straight to his room without a word, though Valjean was usually pacing the floor, clutching a well-worn volume. 

One night, he returned more sullen than usual and soaked to the bone. He brushed past Valjean without returning his greeting on his way to the fireplace. 

He shrugged his shoulders, trying to relax the tense muscles as he leaned on the mantle by the fireplace, staring blankly at the embers. He felt Valjean’s solicitous gaze at his back before he felt the hand at the back of his neck. He could not suppress a slight tensing of his shoulders at the contact. Though his muscles relaxed quickly, he knew how deeply the action wounded Valjean. 

“Let me help ease the pain.” Valjean’s voice was kind and the warm breath on his neck brought a sudden heat to his cheeks.

Valjean’s powerful hands were gentle as they massaged the tense muscles of his neck, His thumb brushed the fine hairs at the back of Javert’s neck, causing his breath to hitch. 

He almost barked the next words, a murky haze settling over his thoughts. “Valjean--you needn’t fret over me.” 

“You need to get out of these wet clothes. The damp isn’t good for your wings and besides--you will catch a chill.” His hand moved to the area between the roots of his wings, resting there warm and solid. 

"Leave me, Valjean." 

Valjean left only to return in a moment with a towel and a fresh shirt; and when he returned, Javert remained standing in the same position in mute contemplation of the dying fire, unaware of anything until Valjean cautiously moved to remove his sodden greatcoat. Javert turned to face him, crossing his arms. “Do NOT touch me, Valjean.” 

Valjean sighed, exasperated, but his tone remained gentle and patient. "I don't intend to harm you, Javert. I only wish to help you. Forgive me.” 

Javert laughed bitterly at those words. "Does an angel demand forgiveness from a damned soul?" 

"I am hardly an angel. I'm only a man." Valjean shifted uncomfortably then set the shirt on the chair and turned to leave the room. "I'll leave this here and wait outside." 

Once Valjean left, Javert started to remove his greatcoat, wincing in pain as it slid over his bruised back. Valjean, who had been waiting outside the door, returned when he heard his stifled cry. 

"Javert--?" He approached cautiously.

“Damn--I am reduced to an invalid.” 

“You should let me take a look at your back. I can see that it pains you.” 

“Pain is nothing new for me, Valjean. I will survive.” 

“Please--?” 

“If it will satisfy you enough that you will leave me in peace then go ahead.” He straightened up, rolling his shoulders, feeling a heat in his cheeks as Valjean circled him and gently prodded his back and chest.He winced with a sharp intake of breath when Valjean's hand brushed a fading bruise on his side. 

He did not protest as Valjean helped him out of the sodden greatcoat, but once it was off, he looked at Valjean expectantly, waiting for him to leave. He heard Valjean gasp behind him as he discovered the series of leather straps binding his wings to his back. 

“Dear God--How long have you done this to yourself?” Valjean studied the harness, frowning. 

“Wing binding is common amongst members of the police.” 

“Why? It seems a cruel and barbaric practice. ” 

“Exposed wings are a liability. Binding protects them from injury. Besides, this practice is better than the alternative." His voice trailed off and the silence was heavy between them, the unspoken word ‘amputation’ at the forefront of both their minds. 

After a moment, Valjean spoke. “You should unbind them at least at night. Your flight muscles have begun to atrophy and you could damage your wings beyond repair.” 

“What does it matter? These stunted wings were never truly intended for flight.” 

Valjean’s hand hovered over the leather straps and buckles, and then Javert felt him caress them lightly. “Don’t the buckles hurt? They must dig into the skin of your wings and damage your feathers. May I unfasten them?” 

 

Javert released his breath in a defeated sigh. He had lost his livelihood, his dignity, his honor. What did it matter now? “Go ahead.” 

With the utmost care, Valjean unbuckled the leather straps and his hand trailed lightly down the length of one wing, feeling the softness of the feathers. Javert’s wings were like a raven’s; the black feathers would have shone like polished obsidian if they were cared for. Javert stiffened and shuddered at the touch that raised gooseflesh on his arms, but did not pull away from the light touch that was foreign but pleasant. Seeing no resistance, Valjean caressed the other wing, causing Javert to let out a small gasp. 

“These are fine wings. You could fly if you did not bind them. But they need to be stretched and exercised. Your flight muscles have atrophied.” Gently, he stretched the right wing out, marveling at the wingspan. He released the right and did the same with the left, trying to gently loosen the muscles. The action drew a slight grimace from Javert, but he bore it stoically. 

Valjean frowned. “Can you move them at all?” Javert nodded and weakly raised and lowered them, then shamed by the restricted range of motion, folded them neatly against his back. 

You must promise me you will never bind your wings again.” 

“My wings have been bound for years. I fail to see the importance now."

“The damage you’ve done will take months to correct, but you are fortunate.” He looked at him with a sad smile. “What you’ve done to yourself is reversible.” Valjean assisted him with changing into the dry shirt, and left him standing by the fire with an expression of deep sorrow. “Goodnight, Javert.” Valjean stood in the doorway shifting restlessly until Javert shot him a dark glare.

Javert paced the room, newly freed wings trembling with each movement. He had allowed the convict to touch him. There was nothing intrinsically base in the touches; yet there was a startling intimacy in the brief touches on his wings, always bound or hidden away under a coat and never touched since his infancy. He paced the room, flushed with his trousers uncomfortably tight. He cursed his body’s response and tried to assure himself it was just his body reacting to exhaustion, perhaps a fever. 

He tried to sleep, but nightmares of wingless angels, cast out of heaven and bound to a flightless life, kept him awake. He awoke, clutching his eyes as if to hold back the images of severed wings discarded in a pile and heated irons pressed to bloody stumps. “God!” He curled in on himself, pressing his arms to his stomach, hit by a sudden and intense nausea. He half-crawled to the chamber pot and retched, lying on the floor until the dry heaves stopped. 

He stumbled into the bedroom and stared at his haggard, pale reflection in the mirror, and searched the dresser. He picked up a straight razor and eyed it critically. He turned to the side, looking at his wings in the glass, and set the razor down. It wouldn’t be quick enough. He went to the kitchen, searching through drawers until he found a knife that would be sharp enough. Bracing himself, he sought out the root of the wing, grimacing as the cold blade dug into his skin. 

“Javert!” The shout stopped him just as the knife drew blood. 

“Stay away, Valjean!” For a moment, he pointed the knife toward Valjean.

Valjean approached cautiously with a hand outstretched. 

“Javert--What are you doing?” 

. “Repaying a debt. Don’t interfere, Valjean. It is no worse than what you suffered.” 

“Javert--You cannot help me by harming yourself. Please..” He took another step forward, causing Javert to edge back. 

“I didn’t know. If I had, I would never have reported you in Montreuil. When I saw you at the Barricade...without your wings. I hoped you would kill me. It would have been just.” 

“I could not murder an unarmed man. You were only doing your duty.” 

“I can never atone for what was done to you. For what I did to you.” 

Valjean inched closer, heedless of the knife blade, and with the agility of a tiger, sprung forward and knocked the knife from his hands, wrestling him to the ground. He held him in a vice-like grip, tight enough to pin his arms to his sides without harming him. Javert struggled a moment, before sinking tiredly to the ground, taking Valjean with him. Vajean did not let go of him for an instant and held him half in his lap. “You did not do this to me.” 

"I arrested you, sent you back. I might as well have wielded the blade. And still..you grant me mercy even when I do not want it, pull me back from the abyss.” He let out an anguished growl, completely shattered. 

Valjean moved one arm, keeping the other securely around Javert, while he examined the injured wing, touching him carefully,as if he were something precious and holy, and not the wretch that sat sobbing on the floor, broken and damned. Valjean sighed in relief as his deft fingers examined the wound. "The cut is shallow. You only managed to cut the skin and damage a few covet feathers." He held Javert a moment more. “If I release you will you promise never to harm yourself again.” 

Javert said nothing, but he nodded almost imperceptibly. Valjean lifted him and sat him in a chair at the kitchen table, making sure the knife was placed in his back pocket before he retrieved a basket of linen strips and a bowl of hot water. Carefully, he dipped a cloth into the water and wrung it out before gently applying it to the wound. If Javert felt any pain from his ministrations, he gave no sign; he stared silently at a scratch on the table. Valjean worked in silence, cleaning the blood and debris off the feathers and then gently binding the injured area with strips of linen, mindful of damaging the feathers. His hand lingered on the injured wing a moment longer as he studied the finished bandage. “There. How does that feel?” 

Javert remained silent a moment and then whispered under his breath. “Is there nothing I can do to escape this torment?” 

“There are no bars on the windows or the doors, Javert. You are not a prisoner here. You are a guest.” 

“I will leave this place, Valjean. I will leave you in peace and I will never trouble you again.” 

“I think it would be best if you stayed here until you recovered. I’ll make some tea.” Valjean put on the kettle and rummaged under the cabinet for a bottle of brandy. When the tea was finished, he added a generous amount to Javert’s cup and handed it to him. Javert drank it mechanically and set the empty cup down. Valjean helped him to the guest room, turning down the bed and setting out one of his nightshirts for Javert. 

“I’ll be just down the hall if you need anything.” He still stood in the doorway with a frown when Javert slammed the door in his face and collapsed on the bed, curling onto his side until he finally gave in to his exhaustion. 

Javert’s screams woke Valjean two hours later and he sprang up, alarmed and burst into the room unsure how to soothe the man and help him escape from the throes of a terrible nightmare. He smoothed the damp hair back from Javert’s brow, a gesture he used to use when Cosette had a nightmare. Concerned that Javert would further injure his wing or decide to harm himself again in the middle of the night, he climbed awkwardly into the bed behind him. Javert felt the shifting of the mattress under the added weight but never woke fully. Valjean leaned against Javert, expecting to be pushed away any moment. He rested his face against the folded wings, rubbed his face against the soft, slightly slick feathers. Struck by a flash of guilt , he raised his head after a moment to study the Inspector and found that the man’s breathing had quieted and he slept peacefully beside him. He had only wanted to touch the wings so he might remember the feeling of feathers. Carefully, he rolled toward the wall, marvelling at the fact he shared a bed with an enemy. He remained awake next to Javert, exhausted but too worried to sleep, until the early morning hours when he finally crept out without waking the man. 

Javert locked himself in his room during the day for most of a fortnight, venturing out only when he knew Valjean was asleep. They spoke only occasionally until Javert woke one morning a week later to the sound of weeping coming from Valjean’s room. He peered in to see the man crouched over a suitcase and clutching a small black dress. He intended to leave before Valjean saw him, but Valjean heard him at the threshold and turned to face him, replacing the dress and shutting the case before hurriedly brushing the tears away and smiling weakly. 

“Valjean, what’s the matter?” Javert felt a sudden rush of guilt for avoiding Valjean. He didn’t understand why he found seeing this man in tears was profoundly disturbing.

Valjean stood on shaky legs. “It’s nothing. Just the troubles of a foolish old man.” 

“I have never known you to cry easily.” Javert was ill-equipped to deal with this. He understood logic, reasoning and practicality, but he had never understood how to comfort. He searched his memory for anything useful, recalling that Valjean had made him tea when he thought to sever his wings. With halting speech, Javert muttered, “I will put the kettle on and then perhaps we can find a solution for whatever it is that is troubling you.” 

After two cups of tea in silence, Valjean began to speak. “He doesn’t want me to see her..” 

Javert narrowed his eyes. “You mean your daughter’s husband?” 

“His feelings are justified. I bring shame upon their household.” Valjean looked at his folded hands and tugged on his sleeves subconsciously. 

“Does that arrogant little prat realize that you saved his life?” Javert clenched his jaw. 

“I..I didn’t tell him. He might not even believe me after all I told him.” Javert stood and crossed his arms, pacing restlessly. 

“Valjean--you have to tell him.” He gave an exasperated snarl. “Why do you conceal the best of you? This is not the time to be humble.” He sat back down when he realized his words had only served to increase Valjean’s distress. 

“Forgive me. I should not have been so harsh.” His hand brushed one of Valjean’s that rested in front of him on the table for just a moment before he started to withdraw it. Before he could, Valjean grasped it and squeezed weakly. The small gesture flooded Javert with warmth and he released the hand in a moment, mind reeling, and made an excuse about clearing the table. 

As winter approached, Valjean began to grow distant and frail. He had stopped going to mass and was leaving most of his meals untouched. When he read by the fire at night, Javert sat with him and noticed his hands shook while holding the lightest book now. Javert attempted with his own, brusque, awkward small talk to draw him from his moments of grim reverie. The former police inspector had taken over going to market and preparing their meals, and although they were often overcooked and barely edible, Valjean never complained. 

Javert’s had healed from his self-inflicted injury and he had kept his promise not to bind his wings, though the feeling of exposed wings seemed almost indecent. He stretched them-- every day just an inch more--till at last he had achieved a normal range of motion. 

On the day Valjean didn’t leave his room, Javert found him lying pale and still in his bed. He approached, terrified that life had already left the frail body, but Valjean turned his head to look at him, eyes glazed with tears. The question was barely more than a whisper. “Javert?” 

“I’m here Valjean.” Javert pulled the covers higher around him and tentatively pressed a hand to his clammy forehead, frowning. “I’m going to send for a doctor.” 

“No--don’t go. Please.” 

“I..alright.” Javert sat in the chair beside the bed. 

“It’s so cold..” 

Javert went to the fireplace and stoked the fire, adding more wood. Then, he gently shifted Valjean on the bed and slipped behind him, pulling the man against his chest. Valjean did not protest, but he looked at him questioningly. 

“I guarantee I have no ulterior motives. I need to get you warm and this is the fastest way.” Holding Valjean against him with an arm around his chest, he spread one wing and folded it around Valjean, who let out a small, startled sound, but then relaxed against him with a contented sigh. 

“Is that better?” Javert could feel the muscles of Valjean’s chest, the convict brand, and the beat of his powerful heart through the thin nightshirt he wore. The scarred stumps on his back pressed into his chest, filling him with remorse.

“Yes..thank you, Javert.” 

“You must try to get well.” Javert’s arm tightened subconsciously around Valjean. 

“I am an old man who is no longer of any use to anyone. All I have left is the memory of flight.” 

Javert steeled himself before his admission. “You are still of use to me.” 

Valjean laughed bitterly. “How can I be anything but a burden to you now. How could I possibly help you?” 

“You could--teach me to fly” 

Valjean turned his head slightly to look at him in astonishment. “You have never flown?” 

Javert shook his head. “There was no need.” 

“Surely someone taught you as a child--a mother?, a father? a sibling?” 

“No. No one.” 

Valjean regarded him sadly for a long moment. “Perhaps I am too weak.” 

“Then you must get your strength back.” Javert shifted his wings a little to cover more of Valjean. 

Valjean raised a trembling hand to stroke the underside of Javert’s wing and smiled as he felt Javert’s breathing increase in response to his touch.. “Will you stay a while?” 

“Until you are sleeping.” 

Valjean settled back against his chest and soon had fallen into a deep sleep. Javert grew a bit hot, and holding his wing in that position grew uncomfortable, but he stayed there watching over Valjean and keeping him warm through the night, at last falling asleep himself close to dawn. 

The next morning, he greeted Valjean with broth, bread, and hot tea and threatened to feed him if he would not eat. To prove he was serious, Javert sat and watched him. Bringing Valjean back from the brink of death was no easy matter, and Javert still feared weeks later as he walked him to mass that he might decline again and simply give up. 

“You won’t come in?” Valjean squeezed his arm before releasing it and smiled gently.

Javert shook his head. “No. I think it would be best if I did not.” 

“Alright. Then I shall say a prayer for you.” Valjean smiled and nodded to him as he walked up the steps of the church. Javert returned the nod and watched him enter the church before turning to leave. 

He didn’t know how exactly they had come to this point. Since Valjean’s illness, they had shared a bed every night, even when Valjean no longer needed warmth. They never discussed it, but Valjean seemed to need the comfort of his presence. Over time, they shifted closer inch by inch like the movement of a glacier--not just on the small mattress but when they took their meals together, read on the sofa, or walked in the Luxembourg. Without even realizing it, they began to find small excuses to touch or be touched--a brush of the hand during the evening meal, a squeeze of the knee while they read together, waking curled against each other on a cold morning. 

Javert didn’t comprehend these feelings. He supposed they were friends, but he also knew that if Valjean were no longer in his life, he would feel a profound emptiness--a loss, and he knew that he would do anything to keep him healthy and by his side. 

As the last snows of winter began to melt, and green began to return to the barren earth, Valjean kept his promise and began teaching Javert how to fly. On a grassy hill in the countryside, they stood together as Valjean explained the mechanics to a slightly skeptical Javert. 

“You’re sure I am not too old for this, Valjean.” 

Valjean smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “You have suppressed your natural instincts for flight. With practice I have no doubt you can master it.” 

Valjean stood behind him ready to assist with the motion of his wings. “Stretch your wings out all the way a moment.” Valjean stood back a few feet as the black wings unfurled. “Now, raise your wings and then lower them.” 

Javert compiled a bit stiffly. “Alright. Was that correct?” 

“Indeed. Over time, you will learn to be a bit more fluid.” Valjean gently placed his hands on the underside of his wings, lifting them and lowering them halfway to demonstrate. “When you’re ready, get a running start and try it.” 

Javert flapped his wings, testing them a moment and ran a few feet, lept into the air, and flew for a few moments only to hit the ground roughly a few seconds later. Valjean rushed to his side, brow furrowed. “Are you alright?” 

Javert rolled to his side with a dismayed expression. “Nothing injured. It isn’t too late to give this up, Valjean.” 

He shook his head and offered his hand to Javert, pulling him up. “Nonsense. When I taught Cosette, she must have fallen down a hundred times when she was learning, but she soon learned to glide and soar, despite all the times she skinned her knees as a fledgling.” 

Javert watched his eyes grow misty as he spoke of bandaging scrapes and making hot chocolate to console his daughter after a fall.

When he finished speaking, Javert dusted himself off and folded his wings, staring at Valjean with crossed arms. “I am no fledgling.”

“You have to be willing to fall in order to fly, Javert. Now, try again and this time, try rotating your wings inward as you raise them just a little.” 

Javert took off and followed Valjean’s instructions, finding that he was able to gain some height and successfully hover a few minutes in the air though his landing was still a bit rough.  
When he landed and sat beside Valjean under the tree, the other man grinned like mad. 

“There. That was much better. Over time, you will learn to test the wind and find the perfect moment to let the wind aid your flight. That will have to wait for our next lesson." He smiled kindly at him and patted Javert’s hand, and they rested there beneath the tree until dusk. 

Over the next few weeks, Javert made great progress in flight and learned to hover and glide and soar. 

When he lighted next to Valjean, making an almost perfect landing, there was pride and a sadness in his teacher’s eyes. 

"Was it a good flight? " 

Javert answered with a trace of reluctance. "It's like nothing I ever imagined. I feel a freedom and an exhilaration I’ve never felt before." 

"I'm glad. You've made excellent progress. " 

Javert sat beside him, studying him a moment. "How did you survive so long without your wings?" 

Valjean swallowed and took a deep breath, clasping his hands. "There was a time when I wanted to die--when I was plagued with the phantom pains and nightmares of the amputation. I became bitter and angry, and at first, it was only the anger that strengthened my resolve to survive."

"How can you ever forgive me? " 

Valjean smiled sadly. "I forgave you long ago." 

Javert wore a stunned expression and his jaw worked soundlessly as he tried to think of a response. He took Valjean's hand and kissed it, as if he were kissing the ring of a bishop.  
A slight color crept into Valjean's cheeks. "Why don't you try lighting in that tree?" 

Javert looked at him skeptically. “Are you sure? It’s quite high.” 

“I have seen you fly much higher than that and the wind is perfect.” 

Javert ran a few paces and flapped his wings, gaining altitude then gliding on the wind. He soared even above the tops of the trees, circling before lighting on one of the sturdy top branches and resting a moment. 

Valjean called up to him, “That was splendid, Javert.” 

With a sudden dive, Javert landed directly in front of Valjean so close that their faces were almost touching. The corners of Valjean’s eyes crinkled and he smiled softly. Javert felt almost dizzy standing there, and on the rush of adrenaline that set his heart pounding, he pressed his lips to Valjean’s in a clumsy but passionate kiss. Just when his senses returned and he began to pull away, Valjean responded, returning the kiss tenderly.With sudden embarrassment, breathing rapidly with skin burning from head to toe, Javert broke their kiss. He muttered an excuse about having to chop wood for the fire and left Valjean standing a bit stunned on the hill. 

Javert spent the next week or so avoiding Valjean yet again, always having an excuse for missing meals or not coming home until early morning. Finally, Valjean stayed awake long into the night to catch Javert as he snuck furtively past the kitchen. 

“Javert. A word?” It was the authoritative tone he employed as Madeleine. 

Javert removed his hat, and stood looking at him with a mixture of guilt and apprehension, looking back toward the front door and then back to the kitchen. “Very well.” He nodded stiffly. 

Valjean poured tea for them both and took a seat opposite Javert, leaving a comfortable distance between them. “I have noticed you seem uncomfortable in my presence, and I wonder if you no longer desire my company.” 

Javert struggled to explain. “It isn’t that I don’t...I should never want to be a burden to you.” 

“During the many months we have lived together in this house, we have taken meals together, even shared a bed. I have noticed a distance between us, and I have made inquiries and arranged to rent an apartment in the building where you used to live should you wish to return.” 

Javert stared at his hands, picturing the cold, bare apartment with its threadbare mattress and sterile whitewashed walls. “I..that was very considerate.” 

Valjean studied his frown. “If you do not wish to leave, then you are welcome to stay. I can have the guest room prepared if you would be more comfortable there.” 

Javert glanced up at him. “Do you wish me to leave?”

“Certainly not. You have become closer than a brother to me. And I...care for you.” 

Javert stood and paced the kitchen, arms clasped firmly behind his back. “I was worried that I had taken unwarranted liberties when I kissed you on the hill.” 

“I admit I was surprised, but it was...rather pleasant.” 

“So it was not a great impropriety?” Javert turned to face Valjean, shoulders beginning to relax slowly. 

Valjean laughed gently. “Not at all.” 

Javert sat down, one hand scratched absently at a greying sideburn. “I am greatly relieved.” 

Valjean took his hand and squeezed it gently. “So we will take our meals together again and you will return to our bed?” 

Javert’s thumb stroked the back of his hand and he met his eyes and nodded. 

And so the distance between them faded once more. Their touches grew deeper, their kisses longer. When at last the time came that caresses and kisses no longer sufficed, it was unexpectedly tender and bittersweet. Neither was a young man, and Valjean knew that although Javert seemed as strong as iron, to treat him with anything but the greatest care could shatter him. 

Afterwards, Javert had wept as he caressed the stumps of Valjean’s wings, tracing and memorizing them. “Do they hurt you..?” 

Javert’s voice was thick with despair and Valjean turned his head to kiss his jaw, feeling the wetness on his neck and shoulders. 

“Shh..not for a long time now.” His hand found one of Javert’s and squeezed it. “The truth is that I don’t feel much of anything anymore. Except for you.” 

Javert stroked the base of Valjean’s neck and placed a kiss there. “May I?" His voice broke with old pain as he shifted lower. 

Valjean drew a shuddering breath and nodded his consent and Javert placed small kisses on his neck and down the center of his back, then trailed kisses around the scars where his wings had been in a gesture full of reverence and contrition. The gentleness of the kisses on the sensitive skin caused shivers of pleasure to pass through Valjean. When Javert placed the final kiss, he rested his cheek against Valjean’s back. 

Valjean turned so they were face to face and brushed his tears away with the pad of his thumb, then he kissed him tenderly, trying to communicate that all was forgiven, that he loved him and it was alright now. A pleasant drowsiness soon enveloped them both, and as Valjean began to fall asleep, Javert’s wings enfolded him, drawing him close to his heart.


End file.
